


Bloodlust

by aftertherain



Category: Generation Kill, True Blood
Genre: Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-14
Updated: 2010-03-14
Packaged: 2017-10-08 00:18:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/70748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aftertherain/pseuds/aftertherain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Urban warfare all over again, but instead of a M-16 in his hands all Nate had at his disposal was his work laptop; and what the hell was he supposed to do with it, chuck it at his pursuer?</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Bloodlust

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Porn Battle IX, using the prompt '**bloodlust**'
> 
> Originally posted [here](http://oxoniensis.dreamwidth.org/25077.html?thread=2052341&format=light).

Nate couldn't be sure which was worse: running laps with sand lodged in his throat while hauling the equivalent of his body weight in gear, or dodging through the streets of Shreveport after midnight in a rumpled business suit with his laptop bag slipping off one shoulder and a beer coaster from the hotel bar which, for some inexplicable reason, was still tightly clutched in his hands. He unclenched his fingers and tossed the soggy cardboard away. His shirt collar was drenched with sweat and something else he was determined not to dwell on, for the moment. But the trace of blood tinged his sweat a faint red when he swiped at it, and the fabric stuck to the side of his neck.

He skidded into an alley far away from the street lamps so he could regroup. For a few minutes, he did nothing except stay bent over with his hands white-knuckled on his wobbly knees, panting quietly at his ruined leather shoes. His tie felt like it was gradually strangling him, so he loosened the knot and tried to think. He wasn't the type to retreat at the first sign of danger, but this was clearly going to have to be an exception. When Nate had bought the stranger a drink at the bar, he'd known it was risky, maybe even crazy by his standards. But then the man had smiled and the similarity had been a kick in the gut, leveling his inhibitions and grinding his defenses into sand. The card key to his room had been burning a hole in Nate's pocket, and his night held the promise of mussing up the clean hotel sheets—all night long—and a hot shower afterwards if he was sore. The eyes that had stared boldly back at him had been as hungry as his own.

But—no, he had definitely not expected _this_.

Urban warfare all over again, but instead of a M-16 in his hands all he had at his disposal was his work laptop; and what the hell was he supposed to do with it, chuck it at his pursuer? There was a rotting old chair behind the dumpster, buried amongst other trash, so Nate kicked at the wobbling leg until the wood splintered, then hefted it quietly in his free hand. If he made it through this night in one piece, he might have a new bar story to tell; and if Brad teased him for being a debauched pansy-assed liberal mingling with the goddamn pasty bloodsuckers, Nate might just look him in the eye and tell him _he_ was the reason Nate's ass had landed in trouble in the first place.

He was sure he had his back to a wall so that he could keep his eyes on the street, sweeping across three possible points of approach he'd identified—he'd been sure of this—but out of the dark sky above him descended a chilling wind, a rustle of fabric. Someone breathed softly over his ear, playfully teasing and deadly all at once. Nate closed his eyes in resignation and let the things in his hands fall to the ground. If this guy could _fly_, what was the fucking point in running?

The Brad-look-alike brushed against Nate's arm and elbow, making the hair stand up at the back of Nate's neck, as he bent smoothly to pick up the manila folder and business cards that scattered out of the front pocket of Nate's battered laptop bag. "Nathaniel Fick," he enunciated, patting the dirt off the leather strap with a lazy sweep. He kicked aside the wooden stump at his feet without seeming to pay it any attention. "Nathaniel—really? _Nate_ ... Nate Fick." He rolled Nate's name around on his tongue like the cadence amused him somehow.

"That's my name, don't wear it out."

This man smiled in a way that was completely different from Brad's self-deprecating curve of the lips. It was a composed, predatory expression that said, _You're interesting_, but revealed little beyond that. Nate didn't know how he could have thought there was any similarity to Brad in the first place. "Well then, Nate, you can call me Eric. I believe we were just getting acquainted."

Faster than his eyes could track in the low light, Eric's mouth was at the side of Nate's neck, at the spot where the blood on his collar had just begun to dry. Nate elbowed him in the solar plexus and maneuvered to put him in a chokehold—there are some things from Recon training that one never forgets—but Nate didn't have the element of surprise the second go-round; this time, Eric was just waiting for him to make his move. Nate's wrists were locked in an iron-like grip and pulled painfully behind his back, immobilizing him as Eric crushed him against the wall and knocked all the air out of his lungs.

He kicked back, hard, and felt the heel of his shoe strike flesh. Behind him, Eric let out a hiss.

When Eric's fangs pierced his skin and sank deep into his neck, it fucking hurt like nothing he'd ever experienced before. It was too much, too fast—the pain almost tore him apart. But sliding in between his agony and fear was the strange sensation of growing arousal; despite the _minor detail_ that a vampire was drinking from him, what was left of the blood in his head decided to pool lower, heating spine-meltingly slowly through his veins and down to his dick. His skin, his face felt like it was on fire; his limbs quivered beyond his control. _Breathe—breathe, motherfucking breathe through this_. He lost track of how much time had passed before there was a barely discernible shift, and Eric started mouthing softly at his damp skin like this was just foreplay. The sting of his fangs on Nate's neck had faded to somewhere far away, some place hazy and pleasant, leaving only the sound of sucking, obscenely loud in Nate's ears.

"I'm not planning to kill you, Nate Fick," Eric stopped once to murmur wetly in his ear, lips dark and gleaming in his peripheral vision. "Simply continuing where we left off."

Nate thought he had something to say about that, but no words came out of his mouth, only harsh gasps echoing against the bricks. Fuck, he thought dimly, shifting against the wall, the rough surface scratching his cheek as he twitched, sharp edges digging uncomfortably against his collarbones. His neck was white hot, his blood flowing molten. His tie came loose all the way and slithered to the dirty ground. He blinked and there was warm sweat falling into his eyes. Though his body was still shivering, lightheaded and overpowered in a situation completely beyond his control, somehow he was inexplicably, fully hard.

He tugged against the grip on his wrists and was surprised when Eric let him free. His numb, clumsy fingers fumbled with his belt buckle, but Eric's hands beat him there, unbuttoning and unzipping him without teasing, then closing in a firm grip around his dick. Eric's erection was digging into his hip, and the thought of getting fucked by someone this much stronger and faster than him made Nate weak in the legs and shorted out his brain functions for good. It must have been the blood loss, for Nate felt that despite the admittedly great sex he's had since his return stateside, he'd never wanted or needed anything as badly and as savagely as he wanted this.

Eric rubbed up slowly against the curve of his ass, stroking between his thighs, a slide of expensive suit fabric against his own, each thrust deep yet tortuously restrained. A taste of what's to come. A wet tongue against the bite marks on his neck sealed the wounds with a kiss, an oddly considerate gesture from what had started out as a potential one-night stand in a strange city, only it turned out to be far more complicated, the way all things in Nate's life tended to go. The chest that pressed along his shoulders and back was broad and strong, a steady weight that seemed to sink against his spine. The feel of blond hair tickled his ears as Eric's voice murmured his name, telling him what it felt like to taste the longing in Nate's blood and how strange, how unexpected it was that it called out to _Eric_ at first sight—was Nate certain that they had never met before?

And through it all, Nate couldn't form a coherent answer, his voice submerged under the flood of sensations. With a few fast, hard strokes of Eric's hand, Nate was coming in spurts against the wall, mouth open without sound as his orgasm was tugged from him in one long, staggered rush. Then ice-cold emptiness knocked him under the waves and he was hunching over himself as painfully bright spots spread in his vision with the force and impartiality of a shamal. _Zero visibility._ His elbows and knees buckled; there was a crunching sound but no pain.

He knew his luck had run out long before.

His heart felt like it'd stopped beating for a moment. When the fog cleared and Nate could think again, he discovered that he wasn't dead, since Eric was turning him around and pressing him back to the wall with a hand behind his head, kissing and nibbling at his swollen lips, seducing Nate painstakingly slowly until Eric was able to trace the outline of Nate's shaky, disbelieving smile—there was no pain, he felt fine, better than anything he'd felt in a long time—out to the corners of his mouth and back in to suck on his tongue. Their tongues tangled together, feeding back to Nate the wild taste of blood—his own and something else stronger and far more intoxicating, Eric's blood—trickling metallic and hot down his throat. He tasted it and gagged, but Eric was stroking a calming hand down his side, fingertips drawing hypnotic circles on his hipbones. Distracting him, soothing him and not letting him fall.

Nate's hands found smooth skin when he unbuttoned Eric's shirt and pushed it out of the way; Eric made a pleased sound, curling his long fingers into Nate's hair as Nate left a trail of open-mouthed kisses down his chest, over the lean muscles of his abs to take a detour to his hipbones. Nate was all for fair play and willing to return the favor in a big way after he'd just about come his brains out, but when he noticed the wreckage that used to be his laptop by their shoes, he closed his mouth and frowned.

"I'll replace it for you—" Eric promised in an exasperated sigh, before Nate could get started. "—tomorrow, after sunset. Because tonight I'm going to fuck you in a bed as soon as you take me back to your room, like you'd planned."

Nate swallowed and said, "Yeah? Fine by me."

Only, Eric peered down at the crushed electronic remains and couldn't resist adding, "Honestly, Nate—I have to admit my opinion of you is now forever tarnished," with a frown on his face but an unmistakable trace of humor in his voice. As if this crappy six year old laptop had anything on Eric's lifetime or that vampires were at the forefront of consumer technology—but maybe they were, what the hell did Nate know? He certainly hadn't paid much attention to the sensationalist news reports about them before tonight. It was just that Eric's wry tone sounded so damned familiar, so much an echo of _Brad_ when he'd stood looking over Nate's cramped desk in the makeshift headquarters in Baghdad, their very last week there, saying _So this is where old electronics crawl to die_, that it surprised a huff of laughter out of Nate and strummed the twinge of longing in his chest, hidden from everyone since Iraq but ever present and—now he knew—also running in his blood.


End file.
